


Iron and Ice

by A_Diamond



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blacksmith Dean Winchester, Dragon Castiel, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Historical Fantasy, M/M, daring rescues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-18 19:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14220135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Diamond/pseuds/A_Diamond
Summary: Dean was so focused on his work that he didn’t notice he had a visitor until he turned to drop the last one into the quenching bath. It was just a customer, and one of his regulars at that, which made his surprised yelp and his half-undressed state both all the more embarrassing.Castiel looked even more flushed with the heat than Dean felt, the color heavy in his face. Maybe he’d been exerting himself, or perhaps he was more sensitive to hot weather than most people. Either way, it made for quite a contrast against the patch of dark blue scales that covered his right cheek.





	Iron and Ice

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dragon!Cas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13206894) by [Correlia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Correlia/pseuds/Correlia). 



> This was inspired by Corellia's lovely secret Santa gift for me: [Dragon!Cas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13206894), and I'm thrilled she agreed to work with me for this! Her art post for Tropefest is [here!](http://correlia-be.tumblr.com/post/172725262674/this-is-for-the-mid-winter-5k-tropefest-i-had-the)
> 
> Thanks to superhoney for the beta and encouragement!

The entire shop felt hot as the forge, between the furnace and the sweltering summer heat. Since the metal cooled and hardened as Dean struck it and his skin wasn’t blistering off his back, he knew it couldn’t be quite as bad as that. It was the worst heat they’d seen in the valley for years, though, and despite that Dean had a job to do. The town needed tools and nails, the knights needed swords and armor, and the blazing sun didn’t change that.

It did make him need to take breaks more often, to quench his thirst and his brow at the well. At least it was a little cooler for having been hidden from the sun’s scorching reach inside dark stone and dirt.

On his third trip, he abandoned his tunic and put his apron back on over his bare chest. The leather stuck to his sweaty skin unpleasantly, and if any drops of molten metal hit his arms he’d be regretting it for weeks, but he couldn’t stand to swelter beneath it any longer. Between the apron and his gloves, he was covered enough to avoid most catastrophe.

The water he’d splashed over himself dried before he reached his shop, and once inside even his sweat evaporated just as quickly as it rolled off of him. He was able to bear the forge a little better with his shirt off. The cloth no longer trapped him in his own body heat, and he could feel the bare stirrings of air against his skin when someone walking by almost created a breeze. It was enough relief to allow him to throw himself into his work; if he could just get the governor’s gardener’s tools finished, he could call it a day without guilt.

He was so focused on pushing through the three shovel heads that he didn’t notice he had a visitor until he turned to drop the last one into the quenching bath. It was just a customer, and one of his regulars at that, which made his surprised yelp and his half-undressed state both all the more embarrassing.

Coughing and trying to salvage what respectability he could, Dean greeted, “Castiel! You should have said something, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Oh, no. I, uh, I only just arrived.”

Castiel looked even more flushed with the heat than Dean felt, the color heavy in his face. Maybe he’d been exerting himself, or perhaps he was more sensitive to hot weather than most people. Either way, it made for quite a contrast against the patch of dark blue scales that covered his right cheek.

Dean had never figured out what Castiel was, exactly. Much of him looked like a man, but just as much didn’t; particularly the large, leathery wings that matched the shade of his eyes and scattered scales. They were always folded behind him, never moving that Dean had seen, but as far as he could tell they were part of Castiel, not a prop or costume. He moved like they were his, always conscious of where they were and never running them into anything even though they reached above his head.

The popular rumor around town guessed that Castiel was a cursed human servant of the dragon that lived in the mountains to the north, but Dean wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure that it wasn’t true, either; he didn’t know and didn’t think there was a good way to ask, so unless Castiel volunteered the information, he’d probably never find out.

Who- or whatever Castiel was, he was also one of Dean’s favorite customers. Every time he stopped by, he had a whole slew of interesting metalwork for Dean to look at. Swords and daggers in foreign styles, banged about pieces of armor that Dean repaired or bought off him for scrap, and on the best days, exquisite jewelry or delicate filigree boxes that Dean could only marvel at. He always said Castiel would do better to take those to a silversmith, not a blacksmith, but Castiel insisted Dean’s estimations of value were good enough for him.

“Well, since you braved the heat to get here, what can I do for you?”

“The... Yes, the heat, of course.” Castiel shook himself, a full-body shiver that didn’t seem to fit the sweltering atmosphere. But he recovered quickly and opened the satchel he always carried; slung around his neck, instead of over his shoulder as people usually wore them, due to the complication of his wings.

Drawing out a pair of knives curved so sharply they were almost circular, Cas set them on one of the work tables. “These seem to be fairly useless as actual weapons, though perhaps the demonstration I witnessed simply had particularly unskilled wielders. Regardless, they’re unique and I thought of you—that you might appreciate their novelty, I mean.”

It wasn’t like Castiel to stumble over his words like that, but when Dean glanced at him, he was still looking down at the unusual knives. The heat-flush on his cheeks hadn’t abated. If anything it was worse, since he’d come in closer to the furnace.

At least between Castiel not looking and Dean’s proximity to the fire, he wouldn’t have to excuse the extra color in his own face. It was foolish to be so pleased that Castiel thought of him, but it was a nice foolishness that harmed no one save perhaps Dean himself, so he allowed himself a moment to appreciate the sentiment before putting it aside.

Removing his gloves, he picked up one of the knives and turned it over a few times, considering the shape of the blade and the handle. “How did they even hold these?” he wondered aloud. “A standard grip, or reversed?”

He tried both, found them equally awkward, and made a face. “Yeah, I don’t know,” he said after a few more attempts just provided new ways to almost slice his own wrist open. “You might be able to find a collector willing to buy, because it is an interesting design, but functionally I don’t think they’re worth more than the scrap they could be melted for.”

Castiel nodded. “I suspected as much. I’ll keep one for my own collection, and...” His eyes dropped down to where Dean continued to toy with the dagger he held. “Would you like the other?”

“I can’t,” Dean protested, setting it down and taking a step back. “You should find someone who can pay you what it’s worth as a unique... whatever it is. The governor has a museum, he’d probably give you at least thirty silver for it.”

“I don’t need to sell it. I want you to have it, as a gift. A—a thanks for all the help you provide me.”

“You pay me for that already.” Despite his argument, Dean itched to look the knife over at greater length. It was ridiculous as a weapon, but exceedingly well-made; a puzzle. Any smith with that level of skill ought to have known better than to try the design as anything more than a decoration. Yet both inner and outer sides bore deadly sharp edges.

He looked up to find Castiel resolute, so made a decision of his own: “At least let me give you something for it. Here, it’s not much but it’s one of a kind.”

In truth, there was only one finished piece in the smithy that belonged to Dean and not a customer. With the heat, he hadn’t had much motivation to do extra work. But while it might not be a fair match for Castiel’s gift, he was proud of how his little experiment had turned out. It was only with mild trepidation that he retrieved the palm-sized sculpture from its shelf.

“Oh,” Castiel breathed with a quiet wonder that Dean didn’t think his little trinket deserved. “You made that? Is it—may I?”

“Just a bit of wishful thinking,” explained Dean as he passed over the layered iron snowflake. “Like I said, it’s not anything really special, but—”

“It is. It’s special. It’s beautiful, Dean. If you’re really willing to give it to me, I’ll treasure it.”

Watching Castiel run his fingertips delicately over the snowflake’s edges sent a thrill down Dean’s spine, pride and jealousy at once. Though Castiel took his leave without granting Dean a repeat view of that caress, the memory of it distracted his thoughts from the heat long into the stifling night. By the next morning, the oppressive weather had finally started to turn.

Dean took advantage of the reprieve, working longer and harder at the forge to get ahead in case the heat returned to smother the valley again. But when after three days the air remained pleasantly cool and he’d caught up on all his orders, instead of moving on to things he’d always need—nails, chains, arrowheads—his attention and his hands kept drifting to the strange circular knife from Castiel.

He still couldn’t tamp down the joy at knowing Castiel had thought of him, wanted him to have one of the unique weapons when its match sat somewhere among Castiel’s treasures. It didn’t mean anything; it was a gift of appreciation, nothing more. But just maybe, considering it a token of friendship wasn’t overstepping his place too terribly. After all, Castiel had accepted his snowflake trinket, and had even seemed pleased about it.

Dean enjoyed his work. He’d apprenticed for the last smith since he was strong enough to work the bellows and then taken over the shop when the old man decided he was done. He loved making things that were useful, would keep people safe and better their lives; but sometimes he looked at the crafts of silversmiths and sculptors and tapestry weavers and felt a pang of envy at the beauty they could create.

But Castiel called the small iron decoration Dean had made beautiful, too. Since he had the time and the materials, and more inspiration than ever with Castiel’s mild encouragement, he spent the rest of his day making whatever he wanted to: A little sunburst, similar in style to the snowflake but different enough that he wasn’t breaking his promise that Castiel’s was unique. A fish with punched-out scales that he might be able to barter for a few small trout at the market. A twisting tree the size of his forearm with the branches bare like they would be in winter.

He stayed until well after night had fallen, longer than he’d ever been at the forge in his many years there, but he was too fixated on his work to even notice the darkness. Then a noise drew his attention to the streets outside. Many noises, actually; the sound of a gathering crowd at an unusually late hour.

With his focus dragged away from the disk he’d just flattened out, Dean finally realized how exhausted and sore he was. Fortunately, he was at a point where it was easy to set everything down, including his apron and gloves, and just walk away for the night. He’d pick it up the next day, or go back to his usual work, but either way he was happy with what he’d accomplished.

By the time he’d stretched out the kinks in his back and locked the shop, it sounded like the entire town filled the square. Excited shouts and cheers echoed between the crowded buildings, but as Dean got closer to the center of the commotion, he also started to hear uncertain, fearful muttering. One word featured repeatedly in both tones: _dragon_.

It sent a shiver through Dean. Though rare, dragons were known for their ferocity and destructiveness; just one of the solitary creatures could raze a village in minutes, and all but the most heavily fortified castles could lose walls or towers under the onslaught of a wrathful dragon. The dragon that lived north of their valley had left them alone for longer than Dean had been alive, but no one knew if that was because it was slumbering or old or just preferred to ravage in the opposite direction. People didn’t talk about the dragon, lest they attract its attention somehow.

What had happened to change that and let people speak so freely? It must not have been an attack, since most people were celebrating, but he couldn’t imagine what there could be to celebrate that involved a dragon anyway.

He didn’t have long to wonder. As soon as he’d reached the outskirts of the square, he could see the massive, dark blue curve of what could only be a dragon’s hide cresting over the heads of the crowd. Chains crisscrossed the beast’s back, pulled so taut they dented the flesh; and not just any chains, not the thick blackened iron chains that he made an arm’s length of each day. The chains that bound the dragon to the enormous, wheeled platform that came into view as he pushed closer gleamed bright and multi-hued in the gathered torchlight.

The furor of the crowd died down as a man in chain armor slammed the butt of his shield against the paving stones three times—not great for the shield, but it got the desired effect. “Behold,” he declared, “the great and noble Sir Bartholomew has on this day saved you from the scourge of this terrible beast. It will be taken to the king’s castle and slain for its monstrosity.”

The dragon thrashed as the square filled with loud celebration again, but it couldn’t escape its chains. The tip of one wing twitched feebly and Dean, still making his way to the front of the crowd, felt a dizzying drop in his stomach. It had Castiel’s wings—Castiel had its wings and the mark of its scales on his cheek. Proof at last of the gossip: Castiel was cursed or somehow indentured by the dragon.

But would he be freed with the dragon captive, or had something happened to him when they caught it?

Pushing in next to a man with the same coat of arms, Dean asked, “Was there a man—”

The dragon’s head swivelled as far as it could with its long neck strapped down and its eyes rolled to Dean. He knew those eyes. Head spinning, he turned around and pushed back the way he had come, ignoring the knight who called a question after him and the chatter of the crowd all around. Ignoring the soft, mournful noise

He found himself back at the smithy without planning it. The furnace hadn’t fully cooled from its long day of work, but he didn’t need it. He needed—he needed to calm his panicked nerves. Rushing thoughts or actions wouldn’t do him any favors, so he forced his focus onto his tools, cleaning them, checking for wear, organizing their places in his workspace so they would be easy to find.

It took little enough time, since he normally kept his things in good order, that the noise from the square had barely died down by the time he finished. Next, he pulled out the slate and chalk he used for complex designs. He’d never learned his letters, not properly—he was no lord or scholar to need them—but his name and his brother’s he knew. He wrote out _SAM_ large enough to fill the slate, then set it on the main table.

If things went badly and he didn’t come back, everything would be held for Sam on his next pass through town.

The din faded to hushed conversations; folks trickled away from the square, some of them walking past the open door of his shop. He kept his head down, absorbed in his tools though he had no need of them in the moment; it kept the passers-by from drawing him into their discussions. He didn’t want to hear what any of them thought about the dragon’s capture.

When he left, he took only two tools from his substantial collection: a heavy chisel and a heavier hammer with which to strike it.

His patience was rewarded and the square was nearly empty when he returned. Only the two armored men remained—and, of course, the dragon. The dragon had stopped thrashing and lay still, eyes closed, looking despondent and resigned. As pathetic a sight as it was, the dragon’s placidness lulled the guards into distraction and their inattention allowed Dean to reach the platform unnoticed by them.

The dragon noticed, one eye sliding open to study him. Seeing that gaze fixed on him again, Dean was more sure than ever. Still, he hesitated long enough to whisper, “Castiel?”

The dragon’s eye widened, then his head bobbed what seemed to be a nod. Dean very much hoped it was a nod.

It took only moments to set his chisel to the chain, which looked more like fine jewelry than a binding strong enough to hold down a dragon. Whatever enchantment was on them to achieve that goal hadn’t anticipated Dean’s interference, because when he struck the links, they broke apart just as easily as a noblewoman’s necklace.

The clang of Dean’s hammer drew the guards’ ire, but too late; their shouts were drowned out by the dragon’s bellow as Castiel shook his wings free of the shattered chain and launched into the air. Dean fell back to avoid getting caught by the flailing escape, then turned it into an all-out run when the angry men with swords, realizing they had no hope of subduing the dragon without magic they didn’t have, came for him instead. The first swing he ducked easily, but the second caught him across the outside of the thigh.

He staggered and cried out, though luckily the slice was shallow and he recovered his footing in time to see the square starting to fill again. Then the people attracted by the noise scattered, screaming and ducking, when Castiel roared a second time. It reverberated through the town, growing louder and deeper as he swooped back down toward the ground.

A blast of frozen air rushed past Dean as Castiel dove over his head. What looked like a flurry of snow, driven by a particularly vicious gale, missed hitting him but caught his attackers full on, driving them back with ice and wind. Their incapacitation, though brief—the stream of frost cut off within a few seconds—allowed Dean to scramble further out of range.

He checked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t backing into anyone else likely to hit him with a sword, and on that front he was clear: no men with swords. Instead, he found himself about to run into a grasping set of giant blue talons. They closed around him before he could do anything but realize it was happening.

Everyone screamed as Castiel carried him off, Dean probably loudest of all. The surprise wore off quickly enough, and nothing actually hurt, but the ground fell away as Castiel soared higher and looking down on it filled him with dizziness and terror both. Closing his eyes helped some, though it also meant he had to clutch Castiel’s claws where they held him just to reassure himself that they were still there and solid—and maybe give himself a chance to hang on even if they let go.

He was pretty sure Castiel wouldn’t drop him—Dean had saved him, then he’d saved Dean from the same people. But that did little to calm the fear of knowing that a fall would mean certain death. All he could do was cling to Castiel and hope their landing, whenever and wherever it happened, would be soft.

After a time his heart stopped trying to burst entirely out of his chest, though it still beat faster than he thought it ever had in his life. Taking a deep breath, he cracked one eye open to see if he knew where they were and immediately regretted it; there was nothing but blackness below, the night moonless and no lights of any town in sight for him judge the distance. In the cavernous darkness, the ground could have been right beneath his feet or a high mountain peak away. He looked up instead, past the grip holding him in the air to the massive scaled chest and to what little he could see of Castiel’s head in the starlight.

Elongated and reptilian though his face was, Dean found reassurance in recognizing Castiel behind the steady gaze focused on a destination only the dragon could see. It had to be getting closer, because Castiel’s flight slowed and with it the wind whipping around them. With a few more flaps of his wings, Castiel brought them close enough to a mountainside that Dean could make out a large plateau just before they dropped onto it.

Castiel landed on his back legs first, hitting the ground with a thud that shook through Dean, and his wings snapped again before one foreleg touched down. The other, the one holding Dean, he kept curled protectively close to his body until he was fully settled. Only then was Dean placed carefully on his own feet.

It seemed like Castiel hesitated as he released Dean, his talons lingering in the last moments before they let go all the way, but maybe Dean imagined that. The next moment Castiel huffed a chilly breath and turned away, stomping off to a wide opening in the mountain’s face. Dean saw no reason not to follow him.

The wall of the tunnel was smooth and cool, guiding him deeper though he couldn’t see the way and Castiel’s long strides soon carried him far enough ahead that Dean couldn’t feel the shake of his steps anymore. Despite the dark and Castiel’s disappearance, he was more sure than ever that he was safe; Castiel had carried him to safety.

Eventually, though, the stone wall ended its straight path and he had to stop or stumble blindly into the pitch black unknown. He stopped and called out, “Castiel?” It echoed as it would in the church; a large cavern, he guessed.

Whatever answer he expected—a draconic rumble, maybe—what he got was a human voice. Castiel’s voice, distant but distinct. “Just a moment!”

He waited, then a muted glow came into view off to one side. It grew brighter and closer until it flared and revealed Castiel at the opening to another hallway, lantern in hand. He looked once more like the man Dean knew; wings, yes, and a few scales clustered together in spots, but mostly skin not unlike Dean’s own.

But Dean wasn’t covered in bruises and scratches.

“Castiel!” he cried again, starting forward toward his customer. His friend.

Castiel had put on trousers, the same dark canvas he usually wore when visiting Dean, but his chest was bared to the lamplight. Even across the vast chamber—Castiel’s home?—Dean could see he was in poor shape. The injuries that hadn’t been apparent on his tough scaled hide stood out against thinner, paler flesh. A patch of bloody, raw pink in the midst of blue had to be a scale ripped out of place.

Just looking at him caused Dean pain; he couldn’t believe Castiel had carried him so far in that condition.

But Castiel shook off his concern with a small, sad smile. “I heal quickly enough. Faster than... than a human would.”

His eyes dropped as he said it, as though he were ashamed. Or afraid that the final admission of what Dean had already figured out would somehow drive him away.

“But it still hurts,” Dean guessed. As he got within arm’s reach, Castiel’s nod was clear. His resulting flinch, even more so. “Is there anything that will make it hurt less while until you heal?”

Castiel’s wings, which had been folded tight and tense to his back, drooped into a more relaxed set. “An ice bath. But first I need—thank you, Dean. You saved my life.”

It was Dean’s turn to look away, shrugging and ducking his head. “You shouldn’t have needed saving. You’ve never caused us any trouble, and I don’t believe for an instant that you terrorized any other towns. I mean, I think I know you well enough—you’re always coming through, just being friendly and kind! If everyone had known it was you, I wouldn’t have been the only one wanting to free you.”

Castiel didn’t look convinced. “They were cheering for my—for the dragon’s death. And I know they wonder about how strange I am.”

“No one knows much about you, so all they can do is wonder. But maybe you hadn’t heard: most people thought you were cursed or enslaved by the dragon, since we didn’t know it was you. No one ever even suggested the possibility that you could change forms, and they came up with a lot of crazy ideas. They probably thought the dragon’s death would free you—I know I wondered about that, before I recognized you. But Castiel...”

He dared to reach out and rest a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, cool to the touch, and squeezed reassuringly when it wasn’t rejected. “If you went back in the morning and told everyone who you are, you wouldn’t have to worry about Bartholomew’s men again. We’d fight them off for you.”

“I can defend myself,” Castiel groused. “You of all people should know that.”

Before Dean could voice his confusion, Castiel swung his lantern in an arc to illuminate a section of shelves near them. Swords, knives, and shields gleamed then dulled in the passing light, and Dean recognized many. He’d assessed them for Castiel over the years.

“Trophies!” After all the shocks of the night, his own laughter surprised him. “They were all keepsakes of battle?”

“I never sought anyone out. I prefer not harming people. But they still hunt me for being a dragon, because of the infamous crimes of only a few of my kind.”

Dean frowned at the array of weapons, as wide a variety as he remembered. They must have come from all over. “That’s a lot of people who’ve tried. Doesn’t it get tiresome? And... lonely?”

Rather than answer directly, Castiel made a thoughtful noise and motioned for Dean to follow as he turned back down the hallway he’d come from. He paused at several alcoves along the corridor to light candles from his lantern, and while the glow that built up was mostly just a sensible idea for visibility, it also warmed the stone into a more homey scene. With the gloom banished, the fathomless tunnel turned into a welcoming hall, and it gently narrowed until it was sized for Castiel’s human form more than his dragon one.

The room Castiel led him to was another cave, naturally, but less cavernous. Smaller than his smithy, it couldn’t possibly fit a massive dragon within. Given that Castiel couldn’t spend his time there freely, the contents of the room came as a shock: it looked to hold the most valuable pieces of Castiel’s—he’d called it his collection, before, but when dragons were involved people usually used the word hoard.

There was some gold—a miniature dragon statue, an ornate jewelry box—but most things were silver or steel. They weren’t the flashy prizes a rich man would pick; their worth was apparent in the way they’d been arranged, displayed on stones and piles of dark cloth in arcs around a bed. Castiel slept there and had chosen his favorite treasures to surround him. The match of the knife he’d given Dean was near the top corner, where it would be close to hand and within sight when Castiel lay down.

On his pillow rested Dean’s snowflake.

“Dragon hunters are usually no more than an annoyance,” Castiel said, voice soft but still enough to drag Dean’s attention away from where it had been caught. “I’ve never been in real danger before. Yesterday I was distracted and they caught me by surprise with their enchantments.”

There was an opening on the end of Castiel’s words, a hook in his tone that suggested he had more to say, but he met Dean’s eyes solemnly before continuing. There was a depth to the blue there that maybe should have been a clue that Castiel was more than he seemed at first glance. Then again, maybe that had nothing to do with him being a dragon.

“I’ve lived here since I first flew from my mother’s lair. I carved it out of the mountain with my own claws and hands and ice to suit me. It should be enough. I made a lair, I filled it with things I like—that’s how dragons have lived since time began. But I spend more time like this than as a full dragon, and I’m happier travelling and meeting people than I am basking in my hoard.

“You were right: I’m lonely. Especially...” His cheeks flushed, with no forge or summer heat to blame it on, but he didn’t look away so Dean didn’t either. “Especially since meeting you, Dean. Coming back here is harder each time.”

“Then don’t.”

Crossing the space left between them wasn’t really a risk after what Castiel had revealed, but it still took twice as much courage as freeing a chained dragon right in front of his two armed keepers. He reached for Castiel slowly, giving him time to object or move if the touch was unwanted; nothing stopped his hand on its way to Castiel’s cheek. The scales under his thumb were cool and almost slippery-smooth, but for all its strangeness, the touch felt more instantly right than anything else in his life.

“Stay. Get your ice bath—make it, probably, because where else would you find ice in the middle of summer. Then if you’re feeling up to it, you can fly us back before the village misunderstands what’s happened and comes to rescue me with my own pitchforks. Then stay.”

Castiel’s lips were cool on his.


End file.
